


Strings – 11/30

by imachar



Series: 30 ficlets series [11]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A weekend away has Phil watching Chris relax with a guitar and a little weed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strings – 11/30

**Author's Note:**

> Another in the 30 ficlets series. A *crib* is a New Zealand (South Island specific) term for a holiday/beach house. 
> 
> Unbeta'd - read at your own risk.

 

It’s been a long time since Phil has seen Chris this relaxed. Comfortably stretched out on a teak steamer chair, wrapped up in a blanket against the chill of a South Island autumn evening, he’s watching the other three figures who are occupying this end of the huge front porch of the Mowbray family crib, while he takes slow, measured sips from a glass of nicely aged bourbon.

Chris is sitting back in an armless rocker, his beloved Martin guitar across his lap and he’s picking out something only half-recognizable; bluesy and Andorian and full of chords that even Phil realizes are complicated as fuck. Next to him John Mowbray is trying to work out the melody on his lap-top keyboard and, on the decking at their feet, John’s older brother Dave has quit even trying – his guitar laid aside – and is lying prone staring up at the ceiling, offering occasional commentary in his dry, slightly lugubrious, way and acting as intermediary for the fat joint of Risian weed that’s getting passed between the three of them.

After a few minutes more Phil hears a muttered “Fuck it.” from Chris and the music changes to something much more familiar, something Chris could play with his eyes closed, and stoned as fuck, which is about where he’s at right now.

“Thank fuck, you irritating git. I was wondering when you were going to stop trying to fucking show off and play something I fucking know.” Dave is an English lecturer at the University of Otago, with a Standard vocabulary second to none and fluency in at least three other Terran languages, and Phil knows him just well enough to recognize the over-frequent use of fuck as an indication of his advanced state of intoxication.

“So you going to join in, you lazy fucker?” John aims a half-hearted kick at his brother’s shin, missing as Dave rolls to the side and levers himself up off the deck.

“Nah, you two keep playing – going to go check on the boys – don’t think they took enough beer down there to get in too much trouble, but best be sure.” He offers the joint to Phil in passing, and Phil waves him off, satisfied with his bourbon and determined that at least one of the adults is going to remain competent for the rest of the night.

Dave smirks under the shaggy mustache that matches his equally shaggy mop of graying blond hair, “Smart man.” And takes a last drag of the dying joint before he nips it out and then lopes down the stairs onto the long spread of grass that leads down to the beach and the dark red glow of a driftwood fire that’s occupying the attention of the next generation of Mowbrays.

Letting his head come to rest on the back of the chair, Phil closes his eyes as the slow burn of the bourbon heats him from the inside out and he listens, amused and content, as Chris and John lazily argue about what they’re going to play next.

They settle on Clapton and as the sound of deep resonant chords and John’s rich, gruff baritone settle into the quiet night air, Phil’s gratified that they’re both still clear-headed enough to make it sound so effortlessly soulful.

He cracks one eye open to watch Chris play, relaxed ease intensifying into a deep genuine contentment as he recognizes Chris’s all-too-rare look of blissed-out content. He’s got his bare feet up on a discarded beer crate, his head flung back, eyes apparently closed, and there’s an utterly boneless lack of tension in his body as his fingers move smoothly over the strings, the light from the lantern overhead catching the iridescent blues and greens of the ceramic moonshine slide on his left ring finger.

This is one of Phil’s favourite things, and something they get to do all too rarely, an entire long weekend of nothing but relaxation; beer and weed and bourbon; surfing for John and Chris and the boys; reading for Phil and Dave and the occasional argument over whose turn it is to produce food from the grill. He turns his attention to John for a moment, watching as he pauses between songs to sweep the thick fall of dirty-blond hair off his face and tie it in a loose ponytail that is only faintly reminiscent of the tidy 18th century clubbed queue that he affects when he’s in uniform.

John is Chris’s oldest friend, together since their first month at the Academy, and while Phil hasn’t always appreciated his role as enabler of Chris’s more egregious adrenaline-junkie episodes, he’s always recognized the depth and significance of their friendship. Starfleet captains both, they understand each other in ways that are impossible for outsiders to comprehend and when Phil had first met John, in a dark noisy San Francisco bar, he’d been instantly jealous of the bond. Twenty-five years on he’s much more relaxed about it, coming to understand over the years that even if John wasn’t relentlessly straight he and Chris are too alike for there to have ever been anything but friendship between them.

The music shifts into something more contemporary and instrumental, and Phil leans back, closing his eyes to lose himself for a while in the complicated intertwined harmonies of Alpha Centauran fusion-blues. Drifting on the sound, Phil’s surprised that they manage to transition between distinct pieces at least three times before John apparently hits on something that Chris isn’t familiar with. He smiles to himself as they bicker idly for a moment before changing era and genre once again, falling back on the familiarity of 21st century Terran folk-rock. It’s louder, more raucous, than anything they’ve played since early in the evening, requiring less precision and skill and more raw intuition and simple coordination of voice and instrument as they roll into the rough-edged energy of a fast chorus.

Just give me one good year.  
Get my feet back on the ground.  
I’ve been chasing grace,  
Grace ain’t so easily found

One bad hand can devil a man,  
Chase him and carry him down.  
I’ve got to get out of here,  
I’ve got to get out of here,  
I’ve got to get out of here,  
Just give me one good year.

By the time they bring it to a close, Dave has reappeared, the youngest pair of boys in tow. “Time to call it a night for these two I think.”

Phil has no idea what time it is but suspects that it’s somewhere north of midnight, and he shakes off the blanket with a slow stretch. “Yeah, maybe for all of us.” He grins at Dave and tilts his head towards John and Chris, who have moved on to a piece that’s completely unfamiliar to Phil, and are apparently oblivious to the conversation. “I’m not providing detox shots in the morning so if they want to be fit for surfing, we should probably cut them off right now.”

“Fuckin’ pain always having to be the adult, yeah?” Dave grins back and throws a stray drysuit bootie at John. “C’mon guys, I’m callin’ time on ya both.”

****

With the older boys sleeping on the beach for the night, the younger pair in the attic space and Dave and John claiming the only two genuine bedrooms in the crib, Chris and Phil are left, as always, with the spare bed in the sleeping porch that’s been tacked onto the north side of the house. It’s open to the elements except for a cleverly disguised weather shield on all the screens and jalousies, and it apparently has a stunning view down the beach at sunrise; although in the four or five previous visits Phil’s never actually been awake to witness it, and he seriously doubts that tomorrow morning will be any different.

By the time he finishes in the bathroom Chris is already curled into the center of the bed, the thick quilt pulled up to his chin and Phil pulls off his sweatshirt and shivers in the slightly chill air before, he slides in and grins as he wraps around a warm, sleepy and very naked Chris.

“Good day?” Phil throws one leg over Chris’s thighs and teases his fingers through the silky curls on his chest, smiling fondly as Chris pushes closer, and drags a stubble rough jaw along Phil’s shoulder and up his throat until he’s close enough to whisper.

“The best. Anytime I can spend a day like this with you, it’s the best.”

“Yeah?” Phil settles closer and brushes a kiss lightly between Chris’s eyebrows. “That’s good to know.”

He knows there is no way that either of them has the energy for sex right now, no matter how tempting it might be to lie here in the dark, sleepy and stoned and utterly content with each other; with the sound of the ocean only a few hundred meters away, beating a slow, deep rhythm in time with their hearts, and the unfamiliar stars of the Southern hemisphere just visible through the weather screens. Still he capitulates when Chris slides a warm mouth up over his jaw, teeth scrapping against skin and stubble until they can meet in a long, soft, slightly messy kiss. It lingers; a sweet, leisurely exploration of territory that is no less enticing for being so familiar, and when they finally have to break for air Chris lets out a faint whimper at the loss of contact. The sound is so unguarded, so sweet and raw that Phil can’t resist going back for more once he’s caught his breath. Chris tastes of weed and beer and Phil slides his tongue deep, chasing down the essence of _Chris_ under all of it. His cock twitches, ever so slightly, just a hint that his libido isn’t entirely subsumed under the blanket of exhaustion and bourbon that’s weighing him down and Chris moves a fraction, pressing a thigh against Phil’s soft heat, flirting with the promise of sex.

But it is a flirt; Phil’s tired, and a slide of his hand down Chris’s torso, fingers carding through soft, thick curls as they curl around a warm and entirely unresponsive prick indicates that the chances of Chris managing an erection are vanishingly small.

“I hope you’re not planning on this going any further.” Phil squeezes gently to make his point.

Chris giggles, in the way that he only does when he’s utterly wasted, “Fuck no, I’m going to be asleep in five minutes. But this feels so good.” He winds himself closer still and Phil reciprocates, one hand still wrapped tenderly around Chris’s cock, the other around the back of his neck as they kiss again, soft and open with all the sloppy tenderness of intoxication until Chris finally breaks away and buries his face in the curve of Phil’s neck. He sighs contentedly and Phil slides his hand up until he can card his fingers gently through Chris’s hair. He smells of wood smoke and weed and just faintly of the sea and in that moment Phil cannot imagine what his life would be like without this man.

“ ‘night, sweet boy.” He whispers it, soft into Chris temple and smiles at the incoherent response as Chris slides into sleep.

 

_fin_


End file.
